The burn did not fade, It deepened. Not across my skin but through it.
I drew in a sharp breath as the mark on my wrist flared, heat spreading inward like something had been triggered, something that had been waiting for this exact moment, for him.
My body went still. Because this was not a reaction. This was recognition.
Kessler felt it. His grip tightened around my wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor me, to remind me where I was, who I was supposed to be.
“Do not move,” he said quietly. But his voice had changed. The man in front of us noticed. His gaze dropped briefly to Kessler’s hand on me, then lifted back to my face.
“There it is,” he said softly. Not to Kessler, to me. The mark burned hotter. It knew him. That thought landed hard. Because it meant this was not new.
